The Mark at the Met
by Halfpint Fountainpen
Summary: Haunted artwork, parttime hunters out of the woodwork, and a night at the museum way wilder than Stiller's.  Sewer gators ain't got nothin' on the newest paintings at the Metropolitan Musuem of Art.  R&R most definitely appreciated, please and thanks!
1. Chapter 1

**The Mark at the Met**

**by Halfpint Fountainpen**

_New York City, NY  
Two months after "All Hell Breaks Loose"_

Dean slid into the driver's seat with an agitated sigh. Sam looked at him quizzically.

"What?" Dean positively snapped, noticing the expression on his brother's face.

"I should ask you the same question," Sam retorted. "What happened in there that's got you all riled up?"

Dean blew out another gust of hot air as he gunned the Impala's engine, the car waking up with its distinct rumble. As he eased the car away from the curb and into downtown traffic, he replied, "Making an appointment with this curator lady is damn hard! I told her secretary dude about five million times, she was expecting us to arrive some time today, and he wouldn't cut me any slack. Friggin' fairy."

Sam smirked. It sounded as if Dean's first impression at the curator's office was not exactly stellar. "And?" he prompted, settling comfortably into his seat as the Impala inched its way through rush-hour traffic.

"I finally got the appointment. She came out herself, the guy was putting up such a ruckus."

Sam got the feeling that it wasn't just the secretary's fault.

Dean continued, in full swing now. "I thought we were dealing with some stuffy old blue-haired grandma type. That's what I see when I hear 'art curator'. Damn, I was surprised when I saw her for real. I mean, wow, Sam. You sure know how to choose the jobs well."

His brother rolled his eyes. It wasn't really his fault that a number of cases he'd promised to take on involved attractive young women. It just seemed to happen that way. Not that he was a chauvinist or anything.

The older Winchester brother just blathered on. "She's incredibly young, Sammy. She's like, my age, maybe a bit younger? I couldn't believe it."

"Dean," Sam said patiently. "If you had any inclination towards the news – "

"Which I don't," Dean cut in quickly.

" – you'd know that Holly West is the youngest curator in the world to ever be in demand from so many museums and galleries. She's the hottest thing from here to Cairo," finished Sam, not missing a beat.

"I'd agree with that," his brother said with a smirk.

"Dean, I'm serious. Everyone – and I mean, everyone! – wants her on their team. The freakin' Louvre in Paris wants her. There were major museums in Greece and Italy asking for her résumé."

"So?"

Sam was always exasperated with Dean's somewhat limited view of life, but he usually forgot all about it. Now was one of the times it stared him painfully in the face. "What do you mean, 'so'?" he asked, his voice taking on the same tone he'd probably use on an unruly toddler. "Dean, Miss West is good. And not just ordinary good, either. She's practically a phenomenon. She's managed to get major historical artworks for the Met, stuff that nobodyhas been able to get their hands on for any other famous museum in the world. And they've all been trying for years."

It seemed to sink into Dean's a head a bit more. "So she's like, famous. A celebrity in the world of naked statues and weird paintings."

"Well…duh!"

Dean's face broke into a huge grin. "She's hot and famous. I'm beginning to like this job."

Now it was Sam's turn to let out an exasperated sigh. "Just get us back to the hotel, Dean…it's been a long day."

---

Back at the hotel – and Dean still couldn't get over the fact they were in a hotel for once on a job – the brothers showered, changed, and settled down for some light research. Ellen had called them up a couple of days before, telling them somebody had called her asking to connect her with the Winchesters. How Holly West, rising star in the world of art and museum curators, knew about the Winchesters and Ellen Harvelle was beyond any of them.

"It's true, then, that she can find anything," Ellen had remarked over the phone. "She found us, and we're pretty hard to pin down these days. You want her number, Sam?"

Since Dean had been out around town, Sam had taken Ellen's call. Two hours later, when Dean still hadn't shown up, Sam did the math to figure out the current time in NYC, and called up Miss West.

Her predicament was an interesting one. Holly West was having some trouble in the Met. It had all started after she had arrived in NYC after a trip to London, where she'd procured some "truly exquisite" paintings that originated from an old manor house in Canterbury. She'd catalogued the paintings with no evident trouble; it was only once they'd gone on display that things started to get weird. She wouldn't say what had happened, exactly, but Sam had sensed from her tone of voice that it wasn't nice. So, he told Miss West he and Dean would take the case, and would be in New York City in the next couple of days to meet up with her. She gave him the address of her office.

"It's not at the Met at all, but it's on Fifth, too, a little ways down," Miss West had told him. "When you get there, make an appointment for the following day with my assistant, James. We're open from eight to eight."

She had a very British voice, which was odd because Sam could have sworn he'd read in one paper or another that Holly West was from New England. He figured she'd gone to boarding school or something over in the United Kingdom. At any rate, it was a trivial matter.

"Dean and I will be on the road as soon as possible," he'd promised. "We're in Maine right now. We should be in NYC by tomorrow."

"That's wonderful. Have you any accommodation plans?"

That had been something Sam hadn't thought of before accepting the job. A place to stay in New York City was going to be a bit of a problem, especially if they were going to have to be around the Metropolitan a lot. Miss West seemed to have sensed his hesitation, however, because she offered to book a hotel room for them "in a nice part of town."

And so it was. The Empire Hotel wasn't the Waldorf, but even Dean appreciated the place. It wasn't too far from where they had to be, and the place was extraordinary to the usual motels that the brothers were accustomed to staying in. Sam's only worry was that if something should happen at the Met while he and Dean were chilling, they wouldn't get there in time. Dean's only worry was..well, nothing to be exact. He was having the time of his life.

---

Dean scrunched up in a ball and stuck his pillow over his head. The incessant beeping of the alarm clock, however, still penetrated the thick layer of cotton and feathers being clamped down on his head.

"Sam," Dean grunted, "turn off the blasted thing."

The beeping continued.

"Sam!" Dean barked. His head was going through enough without any of that blasted chirping.

The beeping continued.

Dean shot upright, the pillow flying off his head to land on the floor, and slammed his hand down on the alarm clock until it stopped. No point trying to get back to sleep now, he reasoned; all that had woken him up. Grumpy, he looked over to Sam's bed. It was empty.

"Hm..." Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep out of his bleary eyes. Their appointment was set for one that afternoon, and he looked over his shoulder at the clock again. It read nine, and Dean groaned. After last night's excursion to the bar, this was neither the best time nor the best way to be waking up.

Sam came back into the room, hair damp from the shower and a towel over his shoulder. "Look who's finally up," he remarked as he strode over to his side of the room and began digging in his bag for a shirt.

"Shut up," Dean practically snarled. His head hurt like hell and he didn't want to put up with any more bull.

"You still have to wash the smell of booze off you, and get something into your stomach," Sam continued.

"It's a lunch meeting, for heaven's sake," Dean protested. "I don't need to eat breakfast."

"Yes, you do." Sam gave him a look. "You know just as well as I do how utterly impersonal you get when you're hungover and running on empty."

Dean had to admit that Sam was right. If they were going to do this job, they had to do it right. It wouldn't cut it to go half-assed into the hunt, especially when a person like Holly West was involved. It wouldn't be right, and it definitely wouldn't be fair to her.

He got up and made his way to the bathroom. "Hold all my calls," he tossed over his shoulder, "and round up some chow."

---

The constricting suit that encased Dean was making him feel very vulnerable. It might make him look good, but he preferred his usual attire of a T-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket – that getup made it easier to throw punches and run like hell. The suit jacket, although extremely well-fitting and pristine, felt tight and awkward around his shoulders. The pants were so crease-free that Dean found it damn near impossible to believe Sam hadn't starched the shit out of it. The shiny black shoes on his feet pinched his toes, the white button-down felt too close for comfort around his neck and wrists, and – worst of all – the tie Sam forced over his head felt more and more like a noose as the minutes ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace.

He'd had to wear suits before, to be sure – but this was nothing compared to the ones he'd donned in the past. Those had been office attire. What Sam had practically wrestled him into was something reserved for a dinner served with a hitched lady and good booze instead of a one-nighter and a case of cheap booze.

"I can't believe you made me wear this…thing!" Dean fumed under his breath. They were sitting at the restaurant where Miss West had told them to meet her – the Centolire, an Italian restaurant and bar near the Metropolitan.

"Suck it up, Dean," Sam hissed back. "You made a bad enough impression on her assistant yesterday. Let's not do that again, hm? Especially since it's her we're meeting today."

"She's already met me briefly. What difference does it make?"

"You've still got a pretty good chance at hitting it off well with her. After all, she doesn't really know it was your lack of interpersonal skills that got her assistant all ruffled up."

"Bitch."

"Jerk… I could also add that this place isn't exactly a restaurant where you can get away with jeans and a T-shirt."

Dean stared. "Double bitch!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Grow up, Dean. And stop swearing. You might get us in trouble."

A few minutes later they were called up. Sam approached hesitantly – Miss West was nowhere in sight.

The maitre d' noticed. "Are you still waiting for somebody? Your table is ready, if you'd like to wait there."

"Thank you," Sam replied politely. "We are waiting for somebody, in fact. Would you be able to inform Miss Holly West that we're here once she's arrived?"

The man nodded. "Certainly, sir."

A pretty hostess brought them to a comfortable table by a window. Dean sat down in his seat and made himself comfortable. He was getting hungry despite his rather ample breakfast of a bagel, muffin, eggs, coffee, and fruit. His stomach rumbled and he silently, albeit half-heartedly, told it to shut up.

A few minutes later, the hostess reappeared with a petite, extremely attractive woman in tow. She wore a cropped black jacket over a black empire-waist dress sprinkled with small white flowers. A wide red patent-leather belt was fastened under her ample assets, matching her high-heeled sandals and purse. Her hair came down to her chin, a sleek curtain of dark, straightened locks falling over either side of her face while the hair in the black flipped out in a sassy manner.

Sam instinctively stood up in a graceful manner, while Dean sort of awkwardly rose, nearly tripping over his feet.

Holly West smiled at them, her perfect white teeth framed by glossy pale pink lips, and shook their hands. "It's nice to meet you at last, Sam," she said warmly. "And Dean – what a pleasure seeing you again. I do hope James didn't give you too much trouble?"

Dean cleared his through. "Uh, no," he managed to get out. "It's nice seeing you again, too."

Sam smirked. "Miss West, we're both delighted and honored."

"Please, do call me Holly. 'Miss West' only takes business lunches with stuffy old gentlemen ready to part with their grand possessions. This is not a business lunch, and you are not stuffy old gentlemen."

Holly's second smile was a little more understated, but her eyes shone brightly with the light she didn't put into it. She had gorgeous eyes – brandy-brown, black-rimmed irises surrounded by feathery lashes and a dramatic sweep of jet-black eyeliner over each set of upper lashes.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she continued as they all took their seats and received menus. "I…ran into a spot of trouble at the museum."

"Oh?" Dean asked, his interest piqued. "What kind of trouble?"

Holly looked at each brother in turn. "It's difficult to explain, but I'll try," she replied."

--- --- ---


	2. Chapter 2

--- --- ---

"And this is where it happened," Holly said as the trio entered a roped-off room. "We had to close it down for the day while things got cleaned up."

Dean and Sam surveyed the well-lit room as they stepped farther in. Paintings lined the walls, but it wasn't the artwork that caught their attention. It was the white marble statue in the middle of the room and floor. Strange black spots were splattered all over the statue and the surrounding floor area. A little ways off, apparently the highlight of the exhibit, was a painting.

Except…there was no painting in it.

"What the hell happened?" Dean muttered as he examined the frame. It was covered in a liberal smattering of sticky black stuff. The canvas hung from the gilt frame in shreds. It looked like something had exploded within the frame's confines.

"This black stuff started oozing out of the frame, apparently," Holly explained. "I wasn't here to see it; I only got called in once it happened. But Jeremiah here can tell you more." She gestured at a custodian mopping away at the black stains on the floor close by.

The man Holly indicated looked up with a bright smile. He was getting on in years; his salt-and-pepper hair more of the former than the latter by now. His silver stubble glinted under the bright lights of the exhibit. His toothy grin was strangely charming, and he nodded in greeting as he came closer.

"I'd shake your hand, but I've only got one hand to keep up my broom," Jeremiah said cheerfully.

Holly smiled. "I'll be back in a few moments," she informed them. "I just have to check with my boss on something."

Jeremiah leaned in close. "So, what would you boys like to know? I already know this stuff's hextose," he said, his voice low.

The Winchesters openly gaped.

"You…you know about that stuff?" Sam sputtered.

"Of course I do, boy," Jeremiah replied. "I'm the one that gave Miss West a means of contacting you. If I knew about you and what you do, I'd be damned if I didn't know what hextose is!"

Sam leaned in close to the man. "You're a hunter?"

"I used to be, until a sewer gator –

"Ha!" Dean interjected. "They do exist after all!"

" – got my arm as a souvenir," Jeremiah went on, ignoring Dean's outburst. "Ellen Harvelle let me stay at her place for while after I had my operation on the stump. She told me to call her whenever I got wind of something here in NYC, and she'd hook me up with somebody able to get the job done properly."

"Must be hard," Dean commented, "having to live a normal life again."

"Normal?" Jeremiah laughed, a real throw-your-head-back laugh. "Ever since Holly showed up a year and a half ago, I've been having an incredibly strange life. And I've seen strange. I don't need a hunt to come face-to-face with ghoulies and ghosties and things that go 'bump' in the night."

Sam raised an eyebrow as he circled around the marble statue. "You mean," he said slowly, "that Holly knows about this stuff, too?"

"Damn straight," Jeremy confirmed. "Her cousin James is damn good hunter."

"What?" Dean burst out. "James? As in, her assistant?"

"Yes, my assistant." Holly's heels clicked briskly on the shiny floor as she re-entered. "James comes with me on all my trips. He makes sure there's nothing sticking around the stuff I purchase for the museum."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I guess full-time's not his thing?" he asked.

"A part-time hunter can make a damn good assistant," said Jeremiah wisely. More pointedly, he added, "And a damn good art curator, too." His blue eyes stared at Holly for a long moment.

Sam looked up from the hextose-covered frame he'd been inspecting. "Holly? You okay?" he asked. She seemed a bit uncomfortable and uncertain, a look he hadn't seen on her face in any newspaper article or interview, and not once since they'd met.

"It's nothing, Sam," she said briskly, shaking herself back to her usual confident self. "I have to make a few rounds of the museum. I'll be back in an hour or so."

Sam watched her leave, his brow furrowed a little as he sunk into deeper thoughts. Then he roused himself from his reverie. "Hey, Dean," he said, "let's get down to work."

---

"What do you think Jeremiah meant about part-time hunters making good art curators?" Dean asked later when the brothers were back at the Empire Hotel. He spoke around a mouthful of chicken chow mein and moo-shoo pork.

"Maybe there's more to Holly West than we think," Sam suggested after swallowing his mouthful of tuna roll.

"Well, I would have never guessed that," Dean said sarcastically. "No, seriously. Do you think she's a hunter, too?"

"She's the most unlikely hunter, part-time or not," Sam pointed out. "Maybe she was, once. Maybe she quit."

"Quit?" To Dean, that particular option was incredulous for any hunter to consider.

"It's been known to happen, I guess." Sam chewed on the ends of his chopsticks thoughtfully.

Dean shook his head. He couldn't imagine a life without hunting. As much as he wanted a normal life, with a girlfriend and a white picket fence and all that American dream stuff, it was his opinion that he'd go crazy without any hunts.

"So," Sam said briskly after finished up the last piece of tuna roll.

"So what?" Dean asked around another mouthful of Chinese.

Sam made a face. "Dude. You are so disgusting when you eat."

"I was pretty civil at Cento-blah-blah!"

"Yeah, but if Holly could see you now…" Sam shook his head, chucking his garbage. "Anyway, I was going to suggest doing a bit of research before going to bed tonight."

Dean groaned. "Research? Now?!"

"When else? We're seeing Holly tomorrow. We might as well try to figure out what we might be dealing with, so she knows we actually care."

"Sammy," Dean began slowly, "you know what makes hextose. We don't need to do research on that."

Sam shook his head. "I think we do need to do research," he argued. "We know that these paintings came from a manor in Canterbury, and we know that only extremely pissed off spirits can make hextose appear when they're around. So, I say we try to find out whose paintings these were."

"That'll take a long time," Dean protested. "It'll take longer than the few hours we've got before we turn in for the night."

"Yeah, well," Sam said, "that's life. Let's go."

---

With many hours and much labor, the hextose had been sprayed, mopped, wiped, and scrubbed away from the immaculate white statue and the pristine floor. The frame had been taken away, but for some reason Jeremiah couldn't get much hextose off it. Granted, it had taken five people – himself and four others – to clean up the mess in the exhibit, but he'd thought the frame would be easier to clean.

Looking at it now, though, Jeremiah decided it was perfectly reasonable that the frame wasn't easy to clean at all. After all, it was the origin of the hextose, and thus it was the host of whatever spirit had caused the stuff to form.

He shook his head. He'd loved hunting, loved the thrill of the chase and the rush of adrenaline and especially the triumph of a success…but this was something he could do without.

"Beasties I can handle," he muttered as he headed out of the storage room housing the frame, "but spirits? Nah…" The sound of the lock's tumblers falling into place echoed the finality of his words.

Jeremiah walked down the dim corridors. Most of the lights in the Met were shut off at night, save for the ones that lit the way for the weary custodial staff. These lights gave off a dull, yellow-orange light that turned shadows into creepers and exhibits into nightmares. Jeremiah, having seen true creepy-crawlies and living nightmares, was not fazed at all.

Inside the room, the hextose oozed.

--- --- ---


	3. Chapter 3

--- --- ---

Holly shut the front door of her apartment and tossed her keys into the dish on the small table nearby. Dumping her purse on the floor by the door, she kicked off her shoes. She didn't care that they were high-end items; it had been a long day indeed and now wasn't the time to worry about scuffing up patent leather accessories. It was time to rot what was left of her brain, time to flip idly through channels and find fluff and sugar and brain candy.

But first, a shower. She took a long, hot one, letting the heat of the water soothe her tense muscles. Once she had fully relaxed under the steady stream of steaming water, she lathered up.

The soap ran off her body in bubbly waves; as she washed out her hair she watched the water flow off her arms like tiny waterfalls. Absentmindedly, the young woman ran her hand over the back of her neck, down her shoulders, fingers tracing over the thin, jagged scar there.

Before the memories could come back, Holly jerked herself back to reality. She rinsed off idle bubbles, and stepped out of the shower and into a pair of comfortable pajamas.

Settling down in front of her TV, Holly flipped through channels until she found _Grease _playing on some musical movie channel. But even the cheesiness of Sandy and Danny & Co. couldn't get her mind off everything that had been happening to her ever since she'd brought those paintings back from London.

Frustrated, Holly stabbed her thumb into the 'off' button of her remote, perhaps a little harder than she'd intended. She angrily tossed the remote onto the coffee table, and stalked to her kitchen to grab a beer. The young curator took a very, very long pull at the bottle before heading back to the couch.

Once there, she slouched in a corner, a far cry off from the woman who had strutted into Centolire earlier that day. Pajamas, damp and messy hair, no makeup, a beer in hand, and bad posture – it was best, she figured, that she lived alone.

---

Surprisingly enough, Dean was awake before Sam the following morning. Sam found him in the living room area of the hotel room, pegging away at the keys on Sam's laptop.

"Um…what are you doing to my computer?" Sam asked, rubbing his stubble-covered jaw.

"Research," Dean said. He looked up with a raised eyebrow. "I thought you were smart."

"Yeah, well…you never know," his brother replied. "I mean, it was a Trickster causing my computer to freeze on Busty Asian Beauties dot com but just because I haven't caught you yet…"

He ducked the remote that Dean sent spiraling his way, laughing as he turned away towards the bathroom. Dean just shook his head.

"Maybe I should check up on your Internet history sometime!" he threw at Sam's retreating back. All he got in response was more laughter.

Dean sighed and got back to work.

According to what Holly had told them the day before, the paintings had come from a manor house in Canterbury, owned by an old but not well-known family in the county. The whole lord-and-lady deal, complete with the ruggedly beautiful countryside home and beautiful daughters who somehow always managed to get the best guy around.

This particular family had quite the social history. Strange things seemed to have happened around the manor, most often involving visiting young women. This had made Dean's hunting radar go wild. The EMF went wild when it picked up stuff, but that was nothing compared to Dean's own built-in system for detecting something fishy.

The most recent occupant had died a few months before; she had been the last lady to live at Lockwood Manor. An elderly spinster, the last lady of Lockwood appeared to have been a bitter woman with relatives that seemed to choose not keeping in contact with her on a regular basis. She had died alone and had been buried by a handful of her large extended family, and her property had been divided among a few cousins. One such cousin had no taste for paintings; thus, he put them up for auction in London, where Holly West had found and purchased several.

The other paintings Dean couldn't track down, which kind of sucked for the whole case. He and Sam could've been able to use information about those paintings to help solve this one. After all, it would be easier to create a pattern with more data. But he figured that since this was the best he could get, he'd might as well make the best of being between a rock and a hard place.

---

Holly's day off was something she treasured and held absolutely sacred. Sundays for her were much more than religious obligations and family bonding. For her, Sundays were an escape route to a world without boundaries, a world where more mattered than just the price and history of a piece of art.

Today was Sunday, but Holly didn't want to get out of bed just yet. Heck, she felt like not getting out of bed at all. She snuggled under the covers, curling up like a cat on her side. Her tousled hair and bright eyes peeked out from between the sheets and the pillow. It was nine o'clock, a heavenly sleep-in compared to the time she usually had to get up for work.

She lay in bed, halfway between sleep and waking, her lids half-shut and her breathing even and deep. The sounds of the city below always greted her good morning, and she enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the life down there. But on Sundays - especially this particular Sunday, as it was extremely special - absolutely nothing was allowed to get in her way of some rest and relaxation.

Except for that blasted cell phone, maybe. The Sony Ericsson had just exploded to life on her nightstand, Iron Maiden's "The Trooper" blasting at a decibel count usually reserved for an mp3 player. She snatched it up off its mahogany resting place and answered. "Hello?"

"Holly? This is Sam."

Holly immediately sat up and started rearranging herself. "Oh, Sam! Hi! What's up?" She stopped herself in the middle of her primping. He was on the phone, dammit; he wasn't going to see her.

"Dean and I are on our way over. We've got some stuff we'd like to look over with you."

"Uh…now?" Holly repeated.

"Uh…yeah," Sam confirmed. "Or am I getting times mixed up?"

Holly's memory flashed back to the previous evening. Yes, upon saying good-bye they'd settled on this morning to meet again. "Oh, god, I'm sorry," she said hastily, flying out of bed and rushing to the bathroom. "I kind of had a bad night, so – "

"Don't worry," Sam said assuredly. "We'll stop for breakfast on the way to your place. Do you like bagels?"

---

The cream-cheese-and-lox bagel they'd picked up for her was now being digested by her content stomach. Holly sipped at her Mexican mocha, glad for the caffeine. She was still kicking herself for waking up late; then again, as Sam had put it gently, who could break such an ingrained routine?

Dean swallowed the rest of his black coffee and pushed the empty cup aside. "So," he said, "what do you make of all this stuff?"

Holly looked thoughtful as she replied, "I knew the paintings had come from Lockwood Manor, but I'd never really thought to look into the place's history. I mean…they had the whole synopsis of the manor's history at the auction in the program, but they never mentioned many details." She looked up at them. "Do you really think the spinster's haunting those paintings?"

"She's the likeliest suspect as of this moment," Sam told her. "Last person to die there – and it wasn't a quiet death, as we've found out – plus she probably had an extreme attachment to these pieces during her life."

"So that would mean," Dean continued, "that once her relatives starting breaking up the estate and selling their shares, she would've gotten pissed off."

Holly frowned. "But nothing happened to them. Why here? Why now?"

Dean shrugged. "That's what we're here for."

In truth, Dean really didn't know why he and Sam were in New York City, doing a job when there were two other hunters who seemed perfectly capable enough of handling this thing themselves. Granted, Jeremiah wasn't exactly a sharpshooter anymore, but from what he'd heard about James, Dean figured he should have been able to take care of it.

"I'm extremely grateful to you for taking this case," Holly said after a few moments of awkward silence. "I thought James would be able to handle it, but once things started getting way out of hand…well."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. Holly hadn't really elaborated at all on the events previous to the exploding painting and hextose.

"It all started a little over a month ago, with small things around the exhibits we put the paintings in. Flickering lights, electrical failure, that sort of thing," she explained. "James took care of it, and for about a week it was all good again. But then…people started having accidents around the paintings. Accidents we can't really explain. And it seemed the harder James tried to take care of it, the worse the accidents became."

Dean frowned. "You said he's pretty experienced. Any experienced hunter would try burning – "

"Believe me," Holly cut in a little sharply, "we did try it with one painting. It just reappeared the next morning."

That sounded familiar to the Winchesters. They'd faced that before.

"What else did you try? Did you have somebody in England salt and burn the lady's bones?" Sam inquired.

Holly shook her head, and was surprised that Dean did, too.

"Everyone who ever lived at Lockwood was cremated. Servants, the family members, even the livestock and pets." Dean's voice was grave, even somewhat mechanical as he recited what he'd seen online that morning.

"James tried everything he knew," Holly explained. "Artifacts and works of art come with their own ways of breaking curses when there are no bones to salt and burn, no ways to physically damage the pieces enough to stop the spirit. James knows enough to fill a book, but nothing worked." Her voice wavered slightly, but she showed no indication that she was about to lose her cool.

Sam's face registered complete shock, and he looked at Dean. They seemed to be thinking the same thing. Then, Dean's piercing jade-green eyes bored into Holly's brandy-brown gaze. "Holly," he said slowly, "I'm beginning to think that this is bigger than we all thought it was."

---

Holly sat across the table from Dean, looking around the restaurant with a bored look on her face. Dean ran his index finger over the rim of his empty glass of beer, lost in thought. They'd gone out for dinner while Sam went to keep an eye on James. They'd done a toss-up between James and Jeremiah, and settled on the assistant because it would seem he was more of a vulnerable target than Jeremiah was. It had been James, after all, who indirectly infuriated the spirit caught in the paintings.

At least this time they weren't in a high-society restaurant, which made things a little less awkward.

But not by much. They hadn't really said anything during their meal; Dean had attacked his steak and potatoes with a voracity Holly had never seen in a man before, and she watched out of the corner of her eye as she picked at her fish and chips. And now, as her eyes flicked around the restaurant over and over again, she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he played with his beer glass.

The first time she'd seen him, Holly had set eyes on man in desperate need of a change of clothes and a shave. Rumpled T-shirt, worn-out leather jacket, faded jeans. Stubble at least a day old. No wonder James had given him a hard time. Even though he'd looked incredible in that suit the day before, Holly had to admit to herself that the way Dean dressed from day to day was better than the once-in-a-blue moon suits.

They were waiting for dessert, and Holly was wondering what was taking so long. All she wanted to do right now was go home, have a good long soak in a tub of hot water and bubbles, and go to sleep. She wanted to get out of Dean's presence and be alone. But unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. While Sam tailed James and made sure nothing came after him, Dean was going to make sure nothing happened to Holly, and that meant he was coming home with her.

Holly was mildly surprised when a waiter bearing a mini chocolate cake decorated with a sparkler came out of the kitchen. How sweet.

She was more than mildly surprised when the waiter came over to their table and sang "Happy Birthday" to her while the rest of the patrons looked on. She swallowed hard, refusing to let the tears fall. When the waiter had left during the applause of the entire restaurant, she leaned forward and asked Dean if it was all his idea.

"Yes, it was," Dean replied, cutting to the chase. "I read online it was your birthday today, and I felt bad. You didn't have any plans or anything."

Holly shrugged and watched the sparkler sputter and fizz and dance. "I'm not big on birthdays…but thank you."

Dean shrugged as well and muttered a bit sheepishly, "Don't mention it."

She smiled and took a bite. Chocolate cake had never tasted sweeter.

--- --- ---


	4. Chapter 4

--- --- ---

Sam knew that following James in stake-out mode wasn't going to work, but he did it anyway., just so he could look Dean in the eye and tell him, yes, he'd been doing what he'd been told – without feeling guilty. But he didn't really see the point; James was a hunter, and he'd surely know somebody was tailing him.

Sure enough, the other hunter came right up the Impala after only a quarter of an hour and tapped on the driver-side window.

Sam rolled down the window and smiled sheepishly. "Hey," he said. "Sorry about this. I kind of have to."

James returned the smile. "It's fine," he assured Sam. "I figured I might as well come out and let you know I know you're here. It's not really nice, being out here in the dark, and I'm on my way to dinner. Care to join me?"

Since it was actually easier to leave the Impala and walk to the restaurant James had in mind, Sam made damn sure that the Impala wasn't going to go anywhere by means of a Club and handle-activated alarm. He pulled his jacket tighter around his tall, lean frame, and fell into step beside James.

The restaurant was a cheery, casual place to grab a bite. They were seated two empty spots at the bar, and ordered drinks as they waited for menus. Although Sam's ears couldn't distinguish any sort of words from the jumble of chatter assaulting his ears, it wasn't too loud for comfort. When the menus finally came, the two men made their choices quickly, as hunger was beginning to make their stomachs complain from emptiness.

Sam settled comfortably against the low back of the barstool with his beer, looking forward to a meal that wasn't one of Dean's bad attempts at packaged cooking, zapped on high for five minutes, served in a run-down diner, or bought in a drive-thru. This was just one part of a normal life he truly missed: gracious living.

"You're Holly's cousin, right?" Sam asked after a few moments of relishing this newly-acquired bit of normal life.

James nodded, turning his glass to shake the ice around in his rum. "She and I grew up together," he told Sam. "She lost her parents young. Never had a dad, really; he walked out on her mom. They weren't exactly married when Aunt Rachel found out she was pregnant."

"Oh."

"Well…my mom was her sister, and she says Aunt Rachel's boyfriend wasn't a keeper to begin with. And walking out proved it," James continued, his voiced edged with harsh bitterness. "Anyway…Aunt Rachel died when Holly was still little more than a baby, about two I guess. I was seven at the time, and my parents took her in. I was an only child before that. She came to us all the way from Massachusetts with Aunt Rachel's lawyer. Poor kid."

Sam stared into the depths of his beer. "How did you get into hunting, James?"

James' smile was wry and rueful. "Not just me. Holly, too."

If there had been no back to the stool, Sam was sure he'd have fallen off. "Come again?"

His companion laughed. "She sure doesn't look it, does she? Nah, Holly and I got into all this stuff when we were young. I was about seventeen, and Holly was twelve," he said. "My dad was a hunter who took care of different haunts around northern England and parts of Scotland. Werewolves, pixies, banshees…usual United Kingdom folklore."

Neither man spoke too loud, preferring to make their voices swim underneath the babble of talk up on the surface. It was a good thing they were sitting close, and that the bartender was on the far side of the circular bar.

"And how exactly did you end up hunting?" Sam wanted to know.

"We were out riding one morning, and we got attacked. Dad had been tracking a werewolf for days, and the four of us – me, Holly, Dad, and the furry lug – all met there, up on the moor," James explained. "As a kid, I'd always wonder where Dad was whenever he went away for days on end. When I got to be a teenager, I thought he was having an affair." He laughed dryly. "Sometimes I wish it just had been one."

---

"James used to think that Uncle Richard was cheating on Aunt Leigh," Holly told Dean. They were back at Holly's apartment, sitting on the couch at opposite ends. "He'd be gone for days on end, then come home…changed, somehow. As if what he'd experienced during his absence made him a different man."

"A hunt'll do that to you," Dean agreed. "Dad used to come home after a hunt looking harder, older."

Holly nodded in agreement. "James is five years older than me," she said, "so I was really just a kid by the time he started thinking like that. We learned the truth when I was twelve and James was seventeen."

"How'd it happen?"

"James and I were riding our horses up on the moor. We lived in the far north of England, quite close to the Scottish border," she explained. "Uncle Richard had been gone a few days, but we met him by accident out there on the moor. Really, James and I were far out of the permitted riding area, and we quickly found out why. We were in the part of the moors where all the legends come from."

"Legends?" Dean repeated, curious.

"Legends about banshees and pixies and werewolves," Holly said. "The British werewolf is much different from your American one. Yours don't really change much out of human form. They grow fangs and claws and acquire incredible physical abilities. But the ones in the UK…well, why do you think they're called wolves?"

"They actually change?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Indeed."

Dean decided that he'd take an American werewolf over a British one any day. "So," he said after a few moments, "you and James met a werewolf, and welcomed your uncle home at the same time. Good timing."

Holly laughed dryly, but at least there was a note of understanding Dean's humor. "Yeah, we did. And we found out everything. That's when James decided he wanted to hunt, too, to help his dad…Uncle Richard wasn't getting any younger, but he was one of the few hunters in our part of the country. The more, the merrier."

"And did you try, too?" Dean wanted to know.

She nodded slowly. "I used to go with them during holidays. My aunt died shortly after the werewolf incident, and I hated being alone during summer hols. So I started going along and learning the ropes. I got pretty good."

Dean nodded in understanding. "Then why'd you stop?"

Holly frowned and unconsciously drew herself farther into her corner of the couch. Dean was afraid that he'd strayed into forbidden territory, and sat in uncomfortable silence until she spoke again.

---

"Holly was a damn good hunter," James told Sam after swallowing a mouthful of beef and potatoes. "She'd come along with Dad and me during the summer hols. She hated being alone in the house after Mum died."

Sam wiped his mouth before speaking. "So how did you guys end up in the curator business?"

James was silent for a couple of minutes, and when he spoke it was in a carefully steadied and controlled voice. "We were doing a job with Dad," he said slowly, "out on the Scottish highlands. I was twenty, and Holly had just turned fifteen. Some farmers up the rural areas there had been reporting mauled and stolen livestock for a while, so we decided to check it out. Scotland's got its fair share of black dogs – not the kind you know, though. These ones don't go rounding up souls for the devils."

"What do they do, then?" Sam was genuinely interested in the different kinds of supernatural creatures James had been telling him about.

"Scotland's black dogs are vicious creatures," James explained. "Centuries ago, they'd appear in storms to shepherds on the lonely highlands and down on the moors. They'd lead the shepherd and his flock to safety, and then kill the lot."

Sam felt his pasta primavera go flat and tasteless in his mouth. "And now?" he managed to choke out.

"They appear any time of day now," James said, "whether or not there's a storm. They go after anything, too, not just lonely shepherds watching their flocks. Sheep, cattle, horses, dogs – even children."

---

"When we got up to the highlands, we stayed over at a friend's farm," Holly said, staring off into some far-away corner. "The black dog that had been terrorizing the farms had been working up from the south of the highlands, and their farm was the next on the list. So we settled in, and that night we took up watch from the hayloft."

---

"There was more than just one black dog," James said, his voice grave and hard. "There were six."

---

"We managed to get four of them pegged down before they got to the farmyard," Holly recited, her voice strangely mechanical and halting. "You need to shoot them with special bullets – not silver ones, because they're more than just demon-dogs. We plugged them full of iron bullets that we'd laced with salt."

---

James finished up his steak, explaining, "When the iron's liquid, you have to mix it up with coarse Kosher salt. Kosher salt's blessed, you see, so it's double-pure. Anyway…we were there in the hayloft, pegging the bastards full until they dropped. All but two, anyway. And they were the biggest."

---

"They leaped so high…they cleared the stone wall of the farmyard with at least five feet to spare."

---

"And then they tore through the livestock towards the barn." James' eyes were shut now as he spoke, as if he was trying to block out an image he couldn't avoid.

---

Holly's voice, strained to the point of breaking, spoke bravely on. "They were down below, ripping up everything…the smell of blood came up through the hay and the wood. And then, one was in the loft with us."

---

"Dad got the second-to-last one," James said, whispering now. Sam had to lean in close to hear, thankful that the bartender was nowhere near them and that the restaurant was still noisy, if not even more boisterous than before. "Holly and I teamed up to get the one that came up after. It knocked her over against the barn wall, and Dad went to stand between it and her. It killed him, and before I could get across the loft to Holly it was there."

---

"Uncle Richard fell dead in front of me," Holly choked out through the tears that had started to fall. "I was bleeding through the back of my shirt; I'd fallen against a nail sticking out of the wall when the last one knocked me clean over the hay to the other side of the loft…and then it came leaping at me over the hay."

---

"All I could do was watch as it leaped onto her. She was trapped against the wall, with no protection. She'd lost grip of her rifle when she flew through the air."

---

Holly wasn't even bothering to wipe her eyes anymore. "I saw Uncle Richard's knife sticking out of its sheath under his body. I…I don't even remember doing it…but I grabbed the knife and threw it."

---

"She threw Dad's knife," James said softly, "right into its mouth. And it fell dead on the hay."

Sam stared, shocked, at James. James was looking straight down at the bottom of his scotch glass. "And that was the end of your hunting careers?"

James nodded vaguely. "Holly kept having nightmares after that. I was already old enough to take her on as my ward, so I did, even though it was tough. We were all either of us had left in the world, and even though Dad was a full-time hunter, our family had money and we inherited it. Mum's side was pretty filthy rich. Anyway…it was enough for us to live on, and enough for Holly to keep going to school. So I told her when September rolled around that we were leaving home and moving to London. And we left behind everything we'd ever known."

Sam blew out a long breath. What an experience…poor Holly. When he was fifteen, he hadn't even really gone out on hunts. He had preferred staying back at the motel or in the back seat of the car, letting Dean go out with their dad to do all the dirty work. He was the researching powerhouse behind all the Winchester hunts, even back then – and even though he did have to get his hands dirty sometimes, he had never been through anything anywhere near as hellish as what James had just told him.

"She's got a scar on her back from that nail," James murmured. At first Sam wasn't even sure if the man next to him was talking to him at all. But then James looked at him. "She keeps it well hidden, even though it's in a noticeable spot when she's wearing her fashionable clothes. It goes from her shoulder all the way to the nape of her neck. Fifty-two stitches were needed to get that thing closed."

--- --- ---


	5. Chapter 5

--- --- ---

Dean carried Holly into her room and laid her down gently on the bed. She'd fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder as they watched TV, and now it was time for Dean to get some shut-eye, too. Holly opened her eyes a little, stirred from her sleep. She saw Dean's face, shadowed in the darkness of the room and the light from the hallway, and said groggily, "Don't leave me alone."

Dean was taken aback, but he nodded and said quietly, "I won't, if that's what you want."

She smiled a little and fell back asleep. Dean found himself very self-conscious even though she was asleep again, but nevertheless climbed into the bed beside her and settled down to sleep, pulling the covers over them both. Holly's slender form was pleasantly warm, and Dean didn't draw away when she rolled over in her sleep and snuggled against him. He found it nice, and was surprised to find it such even though they were clothed and hadn't even tried anything.

He shrugged it off. It was probably an in-the-moment kind of thing; it was sure to wear off sooner or later.

---

Holly's obnoxiously loud ringtone jangled in the dark silence. Her hand shot out from under the covers and snatched it off the bedside table, as per usual. Putting the phone to her ear, she groggily said, "Hello?"

"Holly?" It was James. "Is Dean there?"

"Uh…" She could feel Dean's warm chest rising and falling against her back. "Yes, he is."

"Okay, you and Dean need to get over to the hotel right now." There was a note of deep urgency in her cousin's voice that made Holly sit upright in bed and completely wake up as soon as she heard it.

"James, what's going on?"

"Can't tell you right now; Sam and I are on our way to the Met. Meet us back at the hotel." And then the phone went dead.

Holly stared at the phone in her hands for a moment, puzzled and deeply concerned. Then she shook herself back to the present and prodded Dean. "Wake up, Dean."

"Piss off," Dean grumbled from underneath layers of cotton.

Holly pulled the covers off his face. "Dean, seriously," she said, her voice louder. "We've got to go."

Dean cracked open his eyes. "What the hell's going on?"

"I don't know," Holly confessed, pushing back the covers and getting out of the bed. "James just called. We have to meet him and Sam back at your hotel."

Dean was immediately awake. He bounded out of bed and out the bedroom door. Holly stared after him, and then quickly changed out of the clothes she'd fallen asleep in.

---

It was two when James had called; by the time they hit the road in Holly's classic Camaro, it was ten after. Dean had wanted to drive and looked damn near ready to wrestle Holly for them, but it turned out that she was just as obsessed with her car as he was with his.

"Besides," she added hotly as she pushed him away from the driver's side and over to the passenger's, "you don't know how to handle this baby in the streets of NYC."

"It's two in the freakin' morning!"

"It's dark out, and we're in New York, and you don't know how to handle Bumblebee. So shut up and sit in the passenger seat, will you?"

She stalked over to the driver's side again and got in. Firing up the engine, they zoomed out of the building's underground parking lot and into the streets of the city.

"So…Bumblebee?" Dean asked after a few minutes of silence in the car.

"You don't watch movies often, do you?" Holly quipped.

"Hunting isn't exactly the job that allows for cinematic experiences," Dean shot back. "So, care to explain?"

"It's a 1974 Camaro, yellow, with black stripes. Same exact care as the one the main character of the Transformers movie drives, which turns into the Autobot named Bumblebee."

Dean gave her a sidelong glance. "You actually like that stuff?"

"Yes. Got a problem?"

"…no."

---

Sam's gut feeling had been telling him all night that something like this was going to happen. Jeremiah had called up James, saying something was strangely amiss in the hotel.

"Meet me in the lobby," he'd told them, his disembodied voice made even more distant by strange crackles and pops and hisses. "I'll be there…just – "

The line abruptly went dead after that, and both James and Sam knew they had to go. The interference wasn't poor reception. It was caused by something else, something both men knew they had to deal with right away.

The Impala delivered them safely to the steps of the Metropolitan, and the two men hurtled up the steps. Some quick key-work from James, and they were inside.

Sam headed across the lobby, but stopped only after one step. His feet were sticking to the floor. He looked down, and then looked at James.

"Hextose," he said.

---

"We should go there," Holly insisted for the millionth time.

"We should stay here. Follow their instructions," Dean shot back.

Holly glared at him. "It's been an hour, Dean. They're not here yet; we haven't even heard from them. Let's get our asses to the Met and find out what's going on."

---

The sawed-off shotgun exploded to life, sending a shower of salt right into the heart of the irate spirit. The twisted form screeched and whooshed away into the air.

"Good God!" James swore. "She's really out for blood now." He held his gun up at the ready as the pair of hunters crept down the hall.

"I sure wish Dean would show up," Sam murmured. "He'd know something was wrong…we haven't been able to call them in an hour. Too much supernatural interference."

Silence ensued for several minutes before Sam piped up again. "Why did you tell them to go to the hotel?"

James pondered for a moment, then replied. "I honestly thought it'd be better that way…you know, in case something happened, all four of us wouldn't be tied up – figuratively or literally."

Sam shook his head. "God," he muttered. "You really think that's easier?"

"Yes, I do. I trust Dean to know what to do."

---

The Camaro squealed to a stop, nearly bumper-to-bumper with the Impala at the foot of the Metropolitan's steps. Holly and Dean got out quickly. Dean's mind was piecing together a plan as he exited the car's leather interior.

"Dude. We have no guns," he whined. "And Sam's got my keys, too."

Holly had opened up the rear door on the driver's side and was leaning in. "What's that you said about no guns?" she asked, straightening up and tossing him a shotgun over the roof of the Camaro.

Dean yanked open the door on his side and bent in to look. The back seat of the Camaro was tilted upwards at a ninety-degree angle, revealing an arsenal underneath the cushy leather.

"Dude," Dean breathed. "How the hell did you do that?"

"Just tug on the left seatbelt," she replied. "Get your gun. We're going in."

--- --- ---


End file.
